


Mishpocheh

by Synekdokee



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Fluff, Hanukkah, Human AU, Human!Connor, Jewish Holidays, M/M, One-Shot, jewish Connor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-09
Updated: 2018-12-09
Packaged: 2019-09-15 04:06:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16926204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Synekdokee/pseuds/Synekdokee
Summary: Shayz was hoping for more fics with Jewish!Human!Connor, and it is the season of giving, so here's a tiny little ficlet...





	Mishpocheh

**Author's Note:**

  * For [5ftjewishcactus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/5ftjewishcactus/gifts).



> Shayz was hoping for more fics with Jewish!Human!Connor, and it is the season of giving, so here's a tiny little ficlet...

“I’m home!” Connor announces, shoving the door closed against the blizzard trying to blow its way inside after him. Sumo lumbers up to meet him, trying to get at the grocery bags he’s balancing on both arms.

“No, Sumo, not for you,” Connor admonishes, trying to get his shoes off without toppling over.

“Hello?” He calls out, setting the groceries on the dining table. The lights are on low, Hank nowhere to be seen.

“Hey,” Hank says, finally emerging from the bedroom. “You made it back alive.”

“Barely,” Connor says, putting on the kettle and digging in the groceries for the tea. He prepares two mugs, adding sugar in his and a dollop of cream in Hank’s.

Hank hovers behind him, unusually quiet. Connor hands him his mug and leans up to kiss him on the mouth, sliding one of his cold hands under the hem of Hank’s hoodie. Hank jumps, and then puts his own hand over Connor’s, warming him.

“Everything okay?” Connor asks, taking a moment to indulge in the scrape of Hank’s beard against his cheek.

Hank nods, craning his head back to look at him for a moment. “Sure. I, ah. I have a surprise for you,” he says, taking Connor’s hand and leading him to the living room. He turns on a lamp and points at the cabinet under the window. There used to be a plant there, a dying peace lily that Hank had been neglecting as much as Connor had been trying to mend it back to health.

The plant has been cleaned away, and on the cabinet now is a white cloth, and on top of it-

“A Hanukiah!” Connor says, delighted as he steps in for a closer look. It’s a lovely, traditional design, the silver a little tarnished, giving it a charming patina.

“Where did you get it?” Connor asks, turning to look at Hank with wonder. There’s a ruddy glow on Hank’s sheepish face, but there’s also a current of satisfaction that Connor has seen enough times to recognise.

“Craigslist,” Hank laughs. “I just thought… I don’t really celebrate Christmas, these days,” he says, glancing towards the portrait of Cole, sitting next to the record player. “I guess I thought it would be nice to do things your way, for a change.”

Connor bites back a laugh - as much as Hank thinks he’s the assertive one in this relationship, more often than not what Connor wants Connor gets.

But Connor’s not about to point that out and burst Hank’s bubble (and possibly make him wise to just how sweetly whipped he is around Connor). It doesn’t matter now anyway - this is all Hank. Connor has barely mentioned Chanukah to him, too numbed to the resignation of it not having mattered in his previous relationships. It hasn’t helped that they’ve been swamped with work, the holidays the furthest thing on either of their minds.

Hank has done this of his own initiative, just for Connor. Just so they could mark their first holiday season together with something shared, something to turn into a tradition.

The meaning isn’t lost on Connor. Tradition. Something you observe year after year.

He swallows around the sudden lump in his throat, biting at his lip.

“Thank you, it’s perfect,” he says softly, and Hank smiles wide enough that that gap between his teeth is showing. Connor leans in to wrap his arms around Hank’s wide midriff, resting his head on Hank’s shoulder.

“You have no idea what this means to me,” he says, a little choked up. Hank tugs him off, just enough to look at him, like Connor is something precious to be marveled at. Connor has to kiss him again, can’t not, pouring all of his gratitude into it. Hank hums, wrapping one arm around Connor’s waist to hold him firmly against him, and then dips him back, bending Connor smoothly towards the floor, until Connor’s laughing so hard he has to break the kiss.

“You want to light it up?” Hank asks, pulling Connor up but not letting him go.

Connor feels an excitement well in him over something he hasn’t done in years. He nods eagerly, and Hank digs around in a drawer for some beeswax candles, handing the packet to Connor.

“I wouldn’t know what to do, but you can teach me,” he says gruffly.

“Just don’t expect me to recite the blessings from memory,” Connor says dryly, lighting up the shamash. Hank observes quietly as Connor uses it to light the first candle, bright blue in colour and then sets it back in its branch in the middle.

He wishes he _could_ remember the blessings. He fumbles for them in his head, mutely reciting the few fractured lines he can pull from the dusty corners of his memories. Maybe the intent is enough, for now. Tomorrow he’ll print them out, and he’ll read them to Hank in the candle light. Something warm blooms in his chest at the thought.

They watch the two candles flicker gently, reflected in the window pane. Outside the storm has died, and snow falls in light flurries in the darkness. Connor remembers the holidays of his childhood, the smell of his mother’s latkes, the excitement of peeling off the golden foil of the chocolate gelt, his grandmother singing while the whole family listened.

It won’t be the same with Hank. Like Hank avoids Christmas because of the things he’d lost and can never gain back, Connor knows there are things he can never have again, either.

But they can both build something new, together. Something different, and no less perfect.

Hank tugs him to his side, one strong arm around Connor’s shoulders.

“Did I do okay?” Hank asks, his voice a low rumble that coils warmly under Connor’s ribs.

“You did good,” Connor murmurs, turning his head to nuzzle at Hank’s jaw.

“Hey, is it like a sacrilegious thing to get frisky around these things?” Hank asks, his hand sliding down to rest on the swell of Connor’s ass.

Connor snorts, burying his face in Hank’s shoulder.

“Well, you _are_ supposed to let them burn for at least 30 minutes,” he says, hiding his grin in the soft fabric of Hank’s shirt. “It would be very irresponsible of us to let them burn without us to keep watch.”

Hank’s hand gives a light squeeze, and Connor can’t help the buck of his hips against Hank’s thigh.

“I can work with 30 minutes,” Hank says, tone sly, and Connor lets himself be pulled onto the sofa, laughing as Hank tugs himself into his lap. Hank drags him into a kiss, slow and deep, his tongue sliding against Connor’s like he’s been starving to taste him again.


End file.
